How To Let Go
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: In which Dudley is still haunted by his past, and Dedalus wants him to realize he's better than that.:: warnings for alcoholism and self-hatred


_Lineage Studies, task 3: Write about someone ashamed of their past_

_Word Count: 1375_

* * *

Dudley would never dare to drink in the house. Back before he and his family had to go into hiding, he would always find himself in Gordon's basement with the others, passing around a bottle of whatever one of them managed to steal from the adults in their lives. But those days are gone now. Dudley doesn't know how far away civilization is, but he knows his friends are too far away for it to matter.

So he drinks alone.

Careful not to disturb anyone, he tucks the brightly colored bottle into his jacket pocket. He isn't sure what it actually is, only that he swiped it from Dedalus' pocket earlier that day. It's alcoholic; that's all that really matters.

Dudley hesitates as he reaches the front door. Sometimes he can't shake the feeling that he's being watched. "You're losing it, Dud," he tells himself before scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck. "All in your head."

With that, he slips out the door.

The cabin is quite lovely really. Under ordinary circumstances, he might even enjoy being out here. This isn't a holiday, though. This is a war that has nothing to do with them, yet has still managed to wrap its tendrils around them and disrupt their lives. It's just one more reason to drink.

His spot is at the edge of the woods. There's a place where the leaves and limbs are so thick and nothing can be seen through its dark, waxy leaves. No one would ever think of looking for him there. For months, he has found comfort and solitude in his little hiding place.

His luck seems to run out tonight, though. Sitting in the clearing, a glossy oak pipe tucked between his lips, is Dedalus. "I think you'll find that's my firewhiskey in your pocket, dear boy," he says, no trace of anger in his voice as he lights the tobacco in the pipe's bowl and inhales. "Not sure that your parents would approve."

Dudley wants to argue, to tell him it's none of his business. Dedalus doesn't know him; he doesn't know anything about Dudley or his family, except what he's seen. All he has is just a glimpse, a snippet that doesn't really mean anything at all.

Instead, Dudley reaches into his pocket and retrieves the bottle. He doesn't hand it over straight away. He hesitates, hand trembling. Tears sting his eyes, but he blinks them away.

"Come now, lad," Dedalus says, adjusting his purple top hat. He reaches out and pats the ground beside him, smiling brightly. "Sit a spell. Perhaps we should talk."

Dudley doesn't want to talk, especially not to someone like Dedalus. At least, he wants to believe he doesn't. His actions tell a different story. Still clutching the bottle, Dudley moves closer before sitting across from the wizard. "How did you know I would be here?"

Dedalus chuckles. He removes the pipe from his lips, exhaling the robust, aromatic smoke. The pale moonlight illuminates it, making the grey smoke look almost blue.

"Do you know how many spells Hestia and I have around this place?" He frowns, seeming to lose himself in thought. Maybe he doesn't actually know the number either. "Quite a few! Around the house, around the woods. I have ways of knowing things."

Maybe Dudley shouldn't be surprised. At the very least, it would explain why he so often feels like he's being watched. It isn't just his mind playing tricks on him.

He brushes his thumb over the thin metal cap of the bottle. Words seem to fail him now.

"That isn't the answer, you know " Dedalus blows out another cloud of smoke. "Someone so young shouldn't use alcohol to cope."

"You drink." The words come out as more of an accusation and less of an observation.

Dedalus chuckles. "Last time I got _drunk_, you were still a baby. It was the morning after we thought You-Know-Who was gone. Got so drunk that I sent shooting stars all over Kent," he says, his thin lips twitching into an amused smile. "But I was drinking to celebrate, not to forget."

_Forget. _Dudley wishes he could forget. The alcohol doesn't take the memories from him; it only makes him numb so that they're more tolerable. Every waking moment is plagued by those terrible memories. The Dement-thingies showed him his true self when he was fifteen.

For years, Dudley had prided himself on being the toughest boy around. If anyone had dared to look at him the wrong way, he would have happily knocked their teeth out. He was a lot of things–fat, slow, not terribly smart–but he was not weak.

Except maybe he had been; maybe he still is. He is a bloody coward, always so quick to solve his problems by hurting people because he doesn't know what else to do. He had never learned to use his words, except when his words could get him anything and everything he wanted. Instead, he had learned to take and take until he gained some semblance of satisfaction, though he's always known that he would never be satisfied.

It disgusts him. He has lived too long as a monster, as a bully, as a disgrace. Worst of all, he doesn't know how to make it right.

Dudley doesn't care that Dedalus is watching him. Salty tears leaving warm streaks down his flushed cheeks, he opens the bottle and takes a deep drink. The amber liquid burns its way down his throat and into his stomach, and he savors the heat. It is familiar to him. It is a small comfort, but it works so well.

"I don't know what it is that you hate so much," Dedalus says kindly, reaching out and taking the bottle from Dudley's hand, "but this isn't the answer."

Dudley laughs, the sound dry and bitter. He doesn't know what the answer is anymore. Nothing seems to make the shame fade away. He had tried to make amends with Harry, but he had only managed to tell his cousin that he isn't a waste of space. His mother had praised him for it, like Dudley is a fucking saint.

The shame has only grown since then. His dreams are memories that border on nightmares. How many kids has he hurt? Only two had actually been in self-defense. The others had all been the acts of an idiot out to prove himself.

And he hates himself for it. Nothing will ever wipe his slate clean.

Dedalus reaches out a hand, smiling up at him. "It doesn't have to be this way, my dear boy," he says.

"I'm a monster."

The wizard shakes his head. "I don't think you are."

Dudley scoffs. What right does Dedalus have to presume anything about him? "You don't know me."

The smile never fades from Dedalus' face. He sets the pipe aside, casting a quick spell to snuff out the last few embers glowing within the bowl. "I don't know the old you," he says kindly. "I think that might be the bloke you're having trouble with."

"We're the same person."

Dedalus chuckles softly, removing his top hat and absently turning it over in his hands. "No." He frowns. "No, you aren't. That's the beauty of the world, you see. You don't have to be defined by your past. You learn and grow. You move on."

Dudley swallows dryly, his cheeks burning. With a sigh, he tosses the bottle into the grass beside Dedalus. "I don't know how to move on."

"Well, it sounds like you have a challenge ahead of you," Dedalus tells him, pocketing the bottle. "But don't worry. You don't have to figure it out on your own." He climbs to his feet before reaching down and offering his hand. "I'd like to help you."

It's tempting to refuse. He's spent so long dealing with things in his own way, refusing to let anyone in. Why should he change things now?

He knows why. Try as he might, he doesn't have the skills needed to learn from his past and overcome the shame. He's tired of being on his own. It's time to let someone in.

Dudley takes Dedalus' hand. Maybe there's hope for him after all.


End file.
